I stifle a laugh at how he says pasta, pronouncing the first “a” as it is pronounced in “apple.”
He catches me smirking and shakes his head. “Some habits die hard. Basil. Oregano. . .” He rolls his eyes at his own British pronunciations, and his smile is dazzling when a genuine laugh breaks through my defenses.
“Pasta,” I remind him, clutching the counter for support. His smiles make me dizzy.
“Right. Pasta.” We both wash our hands at the sink station as he tells me we’ll be making tortelloni. “Now, we’re going to measure out one cup of flour onto our countertop. Don’t worry, this area’s clean.” He hands me a measuring cup, takes an equal-sized one for himself, and shows me how to measure out and level out the flour. He guides me through making a well in the middle of the flour mound, cracking two eggs into the opening and beating them for “three minutes, with vigor,” before adding some milk.
The whole time I’ve been searching for a spoon or spatula to mix the dough with, and when I reach for the fork to blend the mixture, he snatches my hand and waggles his eyebrows. “What?” I ask, freezing. His hands should come with a “chance of electrical shock” warning.
He sighs good-naturedly, releases my hand and demonstrates how to blend the flour into the beaten eggs and milk with his fingers. “You brush in a little bit at a time,” he says, “knead it in, until it’s all combined. You try.”
I’m hesitant to get my hands sticky and gooey, but he’s holding back a smile like he knows this and finds it amusing, so I dig in my fingertips to prove him wrong. “So, you like cooking Italian food most?” I ask. I try to ignore his hands, which take some of the dough from mine and start kneading it.
“I suppose. I used to cook mostly French, though.”
And I’m sweating. This dress is cumbersome, and I keep bumping into Ardal, even though he’s standing still, all ease as he helps me knead the pasta dough. “Like bouillabaisse and stuff like that?”
He nods. “Stuff like that. Here, we’re going to wrap this up in plastic wrap and let it chill for a while.” He tears off some plastic wrap, which he hands to me.
I wrap the dough, and when I look up, Ardal’s staring at me. “What?” I ask. My heart is racing.
Smiling, he licks his thumb and wipes the side of my nose. “You have flour just—here.”
He’s so close I catch a whiff of his cologne. I close my eyes, brow furrowed, as I fight a strange sense of déjá vu. “Do I know you?”
There’s a moment of tense silence before he answers in a light tone: “Do you?”
And the feeling’s gone. I shake my head and ask him, “What next?”
Ardal, too, seems shaken out of a momentary daze. “Well, would you rather a meatier sauce or a silkier sauce to go on our pasta?”
“Hmm,” I say, pretending to consider something I have no opinion about. “Which do you prefer?”
He lifts three tomatoes from the countertop and juggles them for a moment before catching them and asking me to put a large pot of water on to boil. As I do this, he explains why we’re boiling the water—to more easily peel the tomatoes—and we chop onions, carrots, and celery into fine pieces. He is absorbed in his work, I can tell, as he has me put on the veggies to simmer so he can start mixing up the filling for the pasta. But he’s including me in the process. It feels . . . nice. Like I’m getting a glimpse into his world.
As we make the filling for the tortelloni, he strikes up a casual conversation. The questions are nothing too personal or too deep at first. I should know this is like boiling a frog: a little heat at a time and the frog’s all right . . . until its blood simmers. But I cannot help answering.
“So, books,” he starts out after a pause.
The sauce is simmering on a back burner, the flavors melding as the tang of the tomatoes and the perfume of the spices permeate the air. I catch myself breathing more deeply, more slowly, enjoying every individual note carried to me by the ceiling fan. Though the house has central air, the kitchen is sultry, and my dress is sticking to my form, making movements scratchy against my skin. Ardal turned up the fan’s speed to high, and I laughed; only he could reach the strings to operate the device without the need of a stepstool.
After a moment of just being, I parrot back his question. “Books.”
His laughter fills the room as he hands me the wooden spoon to stir the sauce with, lest it burn. “You are not an Austenite . . . or is it Janeite?”
I shrug. “Either works.”
“What else?”
I dip the spoon into the silky sauce and stir, remembering to scrape the bottom as he had taught me to. I’m careful not to splatter on myself. “Hmm. Well, I like the Brontes.”
“Charlotte in particular,” he says for me, and I’m impressed and jealous of his memory all at once. He hands me a tasting spoon, which I dip into the sauce. “How is it?”
“Mm.”
“What else?”
I have to think for a minute. I almost name the Gaston Leroux classic, but some eccentricities are best left unmentioned, especially when they bring so many tumultuous feelings to the surface. “Dickens?”
“Is that a question?”
I look up at him, but he has turned his back to me and is putting the filling in the fridge. “Yes, I guess it is a question. Some of his books were—well, I mean, I liked some of them all right. Others were…”
“Bleak House?”
“Bleak.”
That earns me another friendly laugh. “It was the only Dickens I could stomach.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I hesitate a moment before asking, “Isn’t it an English requirement that you like Dickens?”
“So is fawning over tea and scones.” He winks at me, and I blush.
And I am quoting him: “Baking powdery, biscuit-y…”
“You remembered.”
And it is like someone threw a wet blanket over my fire. I shudder. Memory, no friend to me.
Ardal seems to realize he’s chosen his words poorly, because there is a charged pause, and then he ends the conversation about books and regales me about his adventures overseas. “I haven’t seen much of Europe, though I do make a point of visiting Italy every year when I’m overseas visiting Dad.”
I listen, my spine still rigid. Why am I so easily bristled and bruised? Get ahold of yourself, Scotch. He must have asked me a question, because there is silence and he is staring at me. “Huh?”
“Would you ever like to travel?”
This feels like neutral territory bordering the enemy’s land for some reason. “I haven’t thought about it.”
He pulls himself up onto the counter space next to me, right in a mound of flour he forgot to sweep up. “I think you’d like Italy. So charming and relaxed.”
I nod, as if I can see myself anywhere outside of the Antique Boutique. You’re here, aren’t you? No longer cooped up inside Ringmaster’s domain? You’re free, so start acting like it. “Italy sounds like heaven.”
“Mm. Mum and Dad never fought there, like they had some unspoken truce that only came into effect in that country.” Ardal makes a face as if something has just occurred to him. “I’m sitting in flour, aren’t I?”
I bite down on the corners of my mouth, fighting a grin. “Maybe.”
He laughs and doesn’t move, as if to say, “Oh, forget it.”
I make another pass with the spoon, uncertain if the sauce needs it, but knowing I do. If my hands stay busy tending to the simmering red, I’ll have an excuse for breaking eye contact.
He must sense my sudden shyness; Ardal seems to be good at picking up on my moods. But if he does know I’m avoiding his stare, he keeps the knowledge to himself.
Without warning, he hops off the counter, and there is indeed a spot of flour on the seat of his pants, though I try not to look too long, and we finish up cooking in silence.
“Mm,” I say, finishing up the stuffed pasta. I wipe my hands on a thick white n
apkin, which could use a better wash than it’s been getting—preferably with a touch of bleach. I say nothing about it, though, and take another stab at conversation. “Thank you.”
We’ve been quiet through dinner, and I can tell something’s on his mind. I’ve been trying to ignore his new mood, which is indecisive and serious. He smiles a pained smile.
“You’re welcome. I thought you’d like tortelloni. Like little pillows, aren’t they?”
I blink. “Yes.”
He stands up, as if he made up his mind about something. “Time for dessert.” But he doesn’t go back to the kitchen as I’d first expected him to. Of all things, he reaches into his back pocket and fists something. “Mightn’t—Might I give you something?”
My hands are slick and my head is screaming, but I nod.
He breathes a small sigh and comes around to my side of the table, producing a necklace with a pendant at the end made of . . . garnet. A garnet gemstone. He slips it around my neck, and the gem rests on my collar bone like a lone bloody teardrop. I deflate like a giant balloon, and I sit there for a moment until at last I’m able to whisper, “January’s not my birth month.”
“It’s someone’s, though.”
“Really? Whose?”
He hesitates. “Mine.” Again he hesitates. “I’m sorry. Maybe this was a bad idea.” Ardal looks at me, trying to reassure himself of something. But the regret is so thick, I can almost taste it.
It is a beautiful necklace, just unexpected, I tell myself. His eyes are still on me, so I find a genuine smile and say, “Thank you. It’s gorgeous.”
But Ardal doesn’t seem relieved. Almost grimly he studies me and pecks me on the left temple. “I’m sorry,” he says for something, I’m not sure what.
Chapter Twelve
Ardal
2003
It was the fall of 2003, and I was what the Americans were calling a “super senior.” Mum didn’t mind my attending university for an extra year; she was perhaps relieved I’d stopped mentioning culinary school. As far as she knew, I was ordering pizzas for my flat mates and myself every night or eating at the school’s cafeteria. When I’d come home to Nevada, she’d fuss over me, making sure I got a “proper meal” cooked by her latest chef. And she’d be sure to send care packages back with me full of goodies.
My mates were always grateful to her, since they were the ones who ate the stale bread and frozen casseroles. I was grateful, too. Or tried to be. I’d given up resentment for a few pots and pans and a rack of seasonings.
By the time I was a super senior, I was quite used to balancing my cooking and baking with reading, homework, and extra activities, such as debate and now theater. And Mum was none the wiser. I’d tell her . . . eventually. Maybe when I’d earned enough money to pay my way into a school. I was selling my services as a cook to my fellow students who didn’t have family nearby and were terrified of school food.
But as Fate would have it, my oven broke the first week back at uni, and the repair man wouldn’t be able to get to it until three weeks later. That left me little choice but to eat on campus like Mum thought I’d been doing.
A shame, that. I’d just bought fresh cuts of veal. “You could freeze them,” my flat mate said, popping the top off his beer can. He made a face at my face. “Ardal, man, regular people aren’t obsessed with food like you are. No one will know the difference.”
I flopped down in our over-stuffed reclining seat and puffed out my cheeks. “But I’ll know.” For a moment, I sat there sipping aged Tempranillo from a plastic cup, which felt sacrilegious somehow. “Would your mother cook with the veal?”
Steve waggled a finger. “Whether she would or not isn’t the question. The question is whether or not she can.”
“Ah.”
“You saw what she did to salmon.”
I shuddered. How could I forget? She’d tried smoking it and stuffing it with caviar and bacon. His mom had a drinking problem and loved experimenting in the kitchen. Brava for the latter . . .
“You could sell it to the school cafeteria.”
“And men can sell their souls to the devil.”
“Touché. Point taken.”
But that sparked an idea: I’d take it the homeless shelter where I sometimes volunteered on weekends. They had a lovely chef there: Zelda, a woman in her mid-sixties who cooked from her over-sized heart. She’d been a sous chef at some fancy French restaurant in her prime. She would know what to do with the mother-load of tender veal cuts.
That settled, I finished my drink and grabbed my bag, which I’d crammed full of the notepaper, pens, and text books I’d be needing for my evening courses. “Bye.”
“What are you doing for dinner? I was thinking of ordering a pizza.”
I shouldered my bag and moved to door. “None for me, thanks. I’m just going to grab something at the cafeteria.”
Steve snorted. “Hypocrite. Good luck, and may the stomach tablets be with you.”
“Indeed.” I’d eaten only once at the school’s cafeteria and was not looking forward to repeating the experience.
It would’ve been ridiculous to hop into the car for a two-block drive to the campus, so I walked. The weather was hot and heavy with the promise of rain. Because of this celestial threat, most vendors were packing up their stands, and there were only two or three buskers performing on the sidewalks.
One outright got in my path, demanding payment for a performance I hadn’t even witnessed, so we talked for a few minutes until I handed him a smaller bill. I turned to go, and that is when I saw her.
She was a petite wisp of a young woman, hair tucked up in a black, baggie cap with only a strand of brown blowing in the breeze. She was sitting with an elderly woman I recognized from the homeless shelter. The elder, Suzette, clutched a bright orange duffel bag to her chest and talked animatedly to the girl, who listened and handed her a take-out container with some plastic eating utensils.
“Oh bless your heart, you sweet girl,” Suzette drawled. “You do too much for me. I declare.” She set the duffel bag down and dug into the meal, and the aroma met my nose: chicken in a garlic sauce and some sautéed peppers. “And Italian is my favorite cuisine too, child.”
The young woman hugged the elder woman and got up. “Sorry to leave you, Suze, but I have a class, so . . .”
“Now, don’t you fret. I’ll be just fine. Especially now that I’ve got all those pretty clothes you made me.” That is when Suzette saw me gawking. Her grin got even bigger. “Ardal! Oh, come over and say hello.”
The young woman seemed startled to see someone had witnessed her act of kindness. Her face turned crimson, she said one last goodbye to Suzette and hurried off with her own knapsack.
I wanted to hurry after her, to ask her how she came to know our mutual friend, but it would be rude to pass by the elderly woman, so I stopped and talked to her for about ten agonizing minutes.
She shoveled pasta into her mouth as she talked, telling me all about the clothes the girl had made for her. “She is so talented. And she goes to your school, you know.” Here she shot me a shrewd look. “About your age, too, I think.”
“Oh?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“Ardal, you sly thing. I saw how you were looking at her. What are you standing here gabbing with me for? Go find her and take her out for dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said with a salute, and started off.
“You’ll want to run for her,” Suzette called out after me.
And so I put some power into my walk. I could, after all, always do with a stricter workout routine. The girl had a ten-minute start on me . . . not that I was too interested, I just needed more exercise and—Oh, who was I kidding? Between curiosity and the tedium of a bachelor existence, I was driven into an all-out run, dodging hustlers and movers, making quite the spectacle out of myself. “If Mother could see you now.”
The school was within my sight. I paused, searching for her.
It was
nearing six-thirty in the evening, and a herd of stragglers were ambling into the cafeteria. There were too many milling about. I’d lost her.
Frustrated, I raked my hand through my sweat-dampened hair. This wasn’t the end of the world. Still, I loved a good mystery . . . as long as it was solved. Who was she? What was her name? And how did she know the homeless woman, Suzette, well enough to embrace her?
Well, I guess I would never know. That irked me, spiked my pulse, and added to my disappointment about my broken oven. I moved toward the cafeteria doors but caught something out of the corner of my eye. I paused. Sure enough, it was her.
The girl with the black cap stood near the doors, staring at her watch. She seemed worried about something, as she kept chewing her lower lip. She noticed me then, staring. Her cheeks colored, and she hoisted her knapsack over her shoulder and beat a quick retreat through the front doors.
I jogged to the side entrance, hoping to cut her off and ask her name and if she would like to share a table with me. I almost succeeded in my plan, but she had been absorbed into a small group of young women. All appeared to be freshmen. I judged this from their nervous chatter and the fact that they kept reminding each other who was who and what was where.
The object of my interest hadn’t noticed me yet. She seemed quiet, lost in thought and somewhat on the outskirts of the conversation. Someone said something about getting in line, and I knew I’d better make my move quickly.
“Excuse me,” I said, inserting myself into their circle.
They all stopped talking and turned their attention to me. “We’re not in line,” a petite girl informed me.
“Oh, that’s good to know. Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if any of you was new to uni.” My eyes were on the kind girl, but she was looking at the others to answer.
My question got quite a few giggles. “Yes,” said one freshman, a tall girl with a long blonde plait running down her back, “we’re all new here. Is it obvious?”
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